Created from a postcard (Inseparable love)

Inspired by the postcard you all picked, here it is, your first short story of the PICK A POSTCARD series. Let me know what you think and what you would have done with this postcard. Be inspired, write a song, write a poem, draw, paint use this as inspiration and send me your creations. I'll be happy to share them.

Actual postcard used for as inspiration for this piece that has now been posted to the winner

Inseparable love

Two weeks. That was my time frame. Two years’ worth of very limited savings. That was my budget. Four years of questions . That was my inspiration. All odds were stacked against me when I arrived in France with only a faded, out-dated picture of a sixteen year old girl and a hand-full of possibilities as to where she would be. But not finding my sister, was not an option.

“Bonjour, Madam! Welcome to Le Manoir Les Minimes,” the doorman politely opened the door for the lady in front of me and effortlessly took her bags. For a moment I caught the smell of the flowers in the foyer before walking past the fancy hotel to get to my accommodation. With my sleeve covering my hand to limit contamination, I pushed open the door to “Best ackpakers in Paris”. The shadow of where the B used to be was gathering dust, but would probably never be replaced. Not to my surprise, I didn’t get as warm of a welcome as the lady going into Le Manoir Les Minimes. “Clarissa Baker, I booked three months ago”, I cautiously approached.

“Oui, go through.”

Without as much as a glance I was dismissed. It took me 15 minutes to find the room and pick a bed. I slumped onto the paper-thin mattress and pulled out my notebook to review my plan. My eyes grew heavy and eventually gave in.

My first day in France was filled with an overwhelming sense of over-priced bakeries and bad coffee, but nothing was worse than all the no’s. “No, sorry I don’t know anyone by that name.” “Non, mademoiselle, sorry.” “Nope, not in here.” The doubt creeped in slowly. Maybe it was a bad idea to come look for her. Maybe she really did want to be left alone, like mom suggested. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was out there. Alone. Confused. In need of love. By the end of the first week I hadn’t gotten any closer to even remotely knowing where my sister spent the last four years. I had seven days and very little in terms of finances. I scouted the street for the cheapest looking café for a late lunch. A small door and barely visible sign caught my attention and I walked over to it. I sat down and dropped my head into my hands. I desperately tried to cling onto the last bit of hope that I would find her, but I could feel myself losing grip of it.

“Votre commande?”

I mumbled through my hands, slowly lifting my head, “Pardon, I do not speak Fre…”

Our eyes met and immediately I couldn’t see the outline of her face anymore because of the tears covering mine.

“Em?” before I could help myself, I grabbed my twin sister into my embrace and squeezed. I sobbed into her dark brown curls and felt her arms slowly, uncertainly starting to embrace me. After an eternity, I pulled away to admire her beautiful face again. She had matured so much more than I had expected. My words disappeared and I could only look at her.

“Clarissa. You came for me,” tears pooled in the corners of her eyes but she refused to let them spill. Stubborn as always. I hugged her again to allow her the privacy of letting go.

“Of course I did, Emma” I whispered, “Of course!”

I sat in the café watching her work, waiting for her to finish so I could get back the years I had lost with the only person who truly knew me. Just after 9pm the last customer left and I was about to talk when she interjected,

“I know you must have questions. And I will answer them, I promise. I have friends waiting for me by the bridge. Please come with me, and after that we can talk until the sun rises. If I do not show up, he’ll be very worried.”

I nodded, paralysed by the fear of losing her again.

She led us to the love lock bridge, but walked right past it to a ledge under the footbridge. There, a band was surrounded by couples dancing to the rock-n-roll coming from their instruments. A tall dark-haired man came over to us with a broad smile. Only when he reached us, I realised that he was smiling because of Emma. She offered him her hand and he kissed it.

“Pierre, this is Clarissa, my-”

“Sister?” he asked obviously noting our faces, “Nice to finally meet you Clarissa. You don’t mind do you? She promised me the first dance.”

He grabbed her and they moved into the dancing crowd. I took a seat next to some fellow observers on the ledge overlooking the river. The whole time I’d only focussed on finding her. I never considered what would happen once I’ve done it. She giggled and jumped as he swung her and swirled her. The four years that she’d been gone, I’d had moments when I thought she was selfish for leaving me and mom to grieve dad alone, dealing with everyone’s questions who never knew he was ill. But sitting in France four years later watching her dance, clothed in happiness, I finally understood why she fled. I understood that people grieve differently. I understood that she left because she thought she was protecting us.

The song came to an end and everyone clapped cheerfully. She strolled over to me, “I’m sorry.”

“I get it,” I said, “I get why you left.”

Her face softened and she allowed the tears to run across her cheeks. She opened her arms, inviting me in, “What would I do without you?”

Don't forget to send me your inspired masterpieces and keep an eye out next week to pick a postcard. If you pick FIRST I will send it to you just like I did for this week's winners.

Time to be inspired